Diary of a Dying Nation
by Alfred Eyebrows
Summary: I never intended on actually posting this, and yet here we are.


March 9

He's staring out the window. It's almost the end of his first winter. The snow lays heavy on the ground, still and silent. He came to me about a year ago; I still can't believe how much he's changed in that short time.

Change. Always change. Soon, he will be leaving for another home. At least, that is what I suspect should come to pass. Or rather, what will be best for he himself. Will he miss me? Who knows?

I know that at any time, the call could come. The one letting me know that it's time to move on.

Gosh, that brings back memories. Ones I'd rather not revisit, though their edges are already worn with multiple usage. I have taken them out a lot over the years, to think on, and wonder about. What is this empty feeling in my chest? My head is full of cotton and I can't feel a thing.

Where are your friends when you need them? Then again, it's always been like this. Ever since I was a small country, I've only ever been alone. This is not new to me, so why does it feel like it's a painfully new sensation? God, have I really become that weak already?

I'll be alone again soon, though.

And still, he gazes out at the gently layer of white powder—like the sugar atop my lemon bar—that sits on the ground. It will melt into spring, though it doesn't seem to realize it yet. Stubbornly holding on. That sounds a little like myself. Though, of course, when I was younger. Stubborn and not willing to give an inch.

And still, he gazes out at the gently layer of white powder—like the sugar atop my lemon bar—that sits on the ground. It will melt into spring, though it doesn't seem to realize it yet. Stubbornly holding on. That sounds a little like myself. Though, of course, when I was younger. Stubborn and not willing to give an inch.

Hell, it still sounds like me now. But I'm tired, more so than ever before. I can't eat or walk too much, and all my joints groan with an incurable ache.

Now, he sits curled up on his little bed by the fireplace—no fire, of course. I still can't force myself to make one, though I'm sneezing constantly. He's cleaning—licking himself, as cats are wont to do. I can't help but think upon this; specifically that it is adorable beyond anything I've seen for a long while. And perhaps for another long time. I don't like to think of it, but lately, I've wondered…

Ah, my hand aches already from writing. But I will persevere, since I do wish to have documentation of these months. Oh, bloody hell. My pager just went off. I'm not on duty. Not anymore. I am no longer a cop… A transformer explosion? A tree on fire? The electricity may shut off soon.

Doesn't sound too different from my heart. Even now, I feel it beating weakly, fluttering almost. No doctor can cure this; they don't even rightly know what it is. Besides, I'm a country. Nobody—no normal human—cures a country. It's never been done before, and woe should I be to think otherwise. I will not be the one, no. It won't happen.

I thought that fostering this cat—kitten, really—may be a good idea. I was wrong. Every reminder of what is happening brings tears springing to my eyes, and before I know it, I am weeping, hugging the cat close. It's his youth that does it. His vitality, his liveliness, is all that it takes to make me get like this. Why did I get this blasted kitten? Especially when I knew I would only be leaving him soon.

From the very beginning, I knew that he was only a foster cat. I knew he would be taken away. But at the time, it had seemed fitting. Me, with only a few months at best (though at the moment, the danger is not so prevalent), and he, with a new father who could be taken away at any time, much like his cat mother had been. It had seemed like a perfect setup. But, as I have said before…

I was wrong.

March 16

These aches, which had started off as a mere nuisance, are growing rather worse. There is not a painless moment in my life, and barely any spare room left in my head to lend to others. I can't believe it's been almost a week since I last thought of America. Almost a week since the aches began in earnest. I wonder how America is doing, but I can't ask him.

If I called, he would hear the deep hollowness in my voice, and the fake cheerfulness I would automatically call upon to saturate my lies of happiness. And he would be saddened. Sadder still would he be if all he got was a transparent email, or text, filled to the brim and overflowing with hints and accidentally typed clues to my condition.

No, better to wait until the end. Messages are always received better and more openly, with more acceptance, from one who is already mostly gone. Besides, he will find these journals. I know it. I don't need magic to see that.

All my strength is fading fast, and with it my magic. I can't even levitate a napkin over from the kitchen anymore. Nor am I able to get up and make food or tea. Sometimes, I worry that I shall die of thirst before the sickness gets to me.

I am stubborn, though. That much I still have. "Poor England," they'll say. "That poor chap fought to the very end." And it will be true. I will never give a centimeter to this ailment, because the next you know, one will become two, two will be three, and so on.

No, I will break before I bend. That has always been in my nature.

Bloody hell. The phone's ringing. Perhaps I should answer it? But no. I don't have the energy to accomplish such a task anymore. The caller is sent to voice mail, and I listen patiently. Wait, it's France. The wanker. I'll just ignore him.

Clearly, I have nothing better to do than to write of my troubles, pitiful as they are, and to reminisce of times long gone. The nostalgia alone could kill. Coupled with the rest, well… let's just say my last few months on this earth will not be as pleasant as I would hope. Still, I will not ask anyone for help. I guess that I am similar to America in that respect. Pride. I always knew it would be the end of me. I can't even call Japan, Romania, or Norway to ask for some minor, basic assistance. I will walk this path—alone.

Gosh, I'm just now realizing how incredibly horrendous my handwriting has become. I guess that's to be expected. After all, my whole body shivers uncontrollably. I can't even do my needlework anymore, and it is significantly harder to go about my daily routine. Simple things are hard to do; I can't even walk across the kitchen

That's why I have a wheelchair—a testimony to how ill I'm becoming. Even so, I barely have enough strength in my muscles to operate it. Pulling the large wheels takes a lot out of me, so now I spend most of my time in the kitchen, committing my pen to paper, and letting it all pour out.

This also helps to keep me close to the food, and there's a bathroom just down the hall. I sleep here, too, sitting upright in my chair that is yet another constant reminder of my handicaps.

All the doors are locked. Windows, too. I don't want visitors. Nobody must see me as I am now, gaunt and pale. I know I'm losing this battle. And I don't like it one bit.

Whenever I accidentally catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, I require the utmost self-control to not smash it to bits. The pain of seeing how I've become so… so weak almost overrides the aches sometimes, and I nearly lash out at this reflection, this image, this liar. Though, whether I hit the mirror or the mirror hits me, it will be bad for me. And it would make a huge mess that I would be unable to clean up.

Still, my image taunts me, haunting me like my own ghost. As though I were already dead.

I can't look like this. But you also can't fool a mirror. No matter how much you tell yourself, "It's not too bad; I'll make it," the mirror will not change. It tells the cold, hard truth. Because it doesn't care about you at all. In the end, everything is simply a ripple in a giant, placid pond. We were not meant to care anyways. When you subject yourself to your mirror, it will stare back, wearing your face. It is you, but not. The mirror will tell you what you need to know.

And I don't like it.

I hate how my reflection's hair has grown dirty and matted, for I can no longer shower without fear of slipping and cracking my head open upon the cold tiles. I hate, too, the dark, dark shadows beneath my eyes, growing darker and deeper each day. I hate how my whole body shakes, and how all the life has drained from my skin. My high cheekbones seem to jut out of my face, creating mountains where there should have only been molehills. I hate the dark smudges all over my body. Every small touch, feather-light, leaves a mark. An ugly, dark bruise. By the time I finish writing this, I will have very bad bruising where my hand had touched the pen or the table. I hate this incurable disease, with a passion. I hate, I hate, I hate, I hate.

Most of all, though, I hate how weak I've become. I've never been this fragile before.

I don't like it. Not one single bit.

June 8

It's been exactly three months since I discovered the illness in myself. Sometimes, though, I feel that the real illness is only in my head. I can't feel a lot. Not anymore. I've been numbed to emotion, at least, at its full capacity, and perhaps for a while.

I discovered this early today when America dropped by for a visit. I always knew he'd figure it out eventually, but I never expected him to come visit his old guardian. Yet, when he came to see me, after me not having had company other than a cat for so long, I felt nothing. It almost felt as though I had finally died. And in some way, I had.

My eyes glazed over, lost their light. All emotional facilities shut down. I would have been overwhelmed otherwise. I had grown too used to not feeling much other than pain and stubbornness. The full range of feelings had grown distant, alien, and recognizable in memories alone.

I sent him away. Looking back, I wonder if perhaps I had been a little too cold, a little too distant. Perhaps even a little bit cruel.

Though I regained my ability to feel shortly thereafter, a sort of haze remained over my mind. It lingers there now. I cannot banish it away as I have other demons, both of the mind and of otherworldly realms. It is far too late for that.

Everything is melting away. I can feel something indescribable slipping from my grasp, falling through my fingers like sand through a sieve.

Damn. I hate this all.

Bloody hell. Why did America choose today, of all days, to visit? He came too late. A few weeks ago and I would have still looked almost healthy. Now, though… Well, it's too late to dwell upon such things.

Always, it is there. "Far too late… Far too late."


End file.
